Left Behind
by Dot
Summary: Ennis wasn't the only one Jack left behind.
1. Chapter 1

Left Behind A/N: I don't own Brokeback Mountain (though, really, you've never seen me in the same room as Ang Lee or Annie Proulx, so you can't be too sure I'm not living a double life). I do _love_ Brokeback Mountain. I'm playing with the characters. I'll put them back, I swear. In the book, the fact that Lureen's dad has died is mentioned, but as I wrote this before reading the story, I'm slightly… ignoring that fact. Let me know if you like it and if its worth continuing. 

Chapter One:

Bobby Twist was too much like his father.

It was no fault of his grandfather's, who had done his very best to pamper and punish any bit of Jack "Rodeo" Twist out of his son. It may have been the fault of his mother, who hadn't been around enough to instill a love of adding machines and math to counteract the wildness in Bobby. But mostly, it was _his_ fault. His grins, rides on the tractor, the full, crushing hugs he'd give him before leaving on one of his trips up North, as though he may never see him again… It added up to one powerful love. By the time the rumors started going around, it was too late. Bobby was Jack's son, completely, and so their "falling out," as his mother called it, was downright horrible.

It happened when he was sixteen, the day after his birthday. His grandfather had bought him a car— not a broken down old thing like Jimmy Bell had, but a new car, cherry red, like his mother's old Pontiac. His lip had curled up as he saw it (he smirked just like Lureen, Jack had always said), imagining what Jimmy Bell would have to say.

He would never have expected just what Jimmy had to say.

They'd gotten into it just after the lunch bell had rang. Bobby had taken Sandy Black out to the parking lot to show her his car, and Jimmy slinked after them, angry at being shown up by a boy a year younger, who wasn't even on the football team.

"New car, Twist?"

"Yep," he'd replied, grinning ear to ear, arm slung around Sandy's shoulders.

"Guess we know who got this for you. Bet you wish your granddaddy was your father instead of that lowlife excuse you've got for one."

"Don't you say nothing about my dad, Jimmy. Least both my parents are still 'round."

He shouldn't have said it; Bobby wasn't cruel, and he knew it was a sore topic. Jimmy's mom had run off with another man a year before and Jimmy was stuck with his dad, who was a right bastard.

Jimmy looked just like him as he smiled. "Damn, boy, I'd rather have no parents at all than have one who was queer."

It was such a ridiculous remark that Bobby almost laughed, or would have had it not been such an insult. "My dad's no queer."

"That's not what my pop says. Why you think he goes off to Mexico? For the beer? There's lots of little fags down there to roll over for your daddy."

He didn't remember hitting Jimmy. His hand came away sore, blood smeared on the knuckles. Sandy let out a cry; Jimmy was still smiling, a little blood dripping from his nose and coloring his pale lips.

"He even tried it in town once, they say. Down in the red light district. Must have got real desperate, huh, Bobby? Didn't find what he was looking for. Prob'ly settled for your mom that night, huh? Turned her over and—"

He'd thrown himself at him, slamming his body against Jimmy and both of them fell to the ground. Jimmy was laughing until Bobby slammed his fist into his mouth, the ring on his finger splitting the lip. Then he stopped and started to fight back in earnest. But Bobby was Jack Twist's son, and no son of a rodeo cowboy lost a fight, even if it was just on the hard packed dirt parking lot of a Childress County high school. Bobby had the upper hand before long, and kicked Jimmy for good measure before pushing a wide-eyed Sandy away from his car, getting in, and peeling away. He needed to get home.

His father was rarely home for lunch. A salesman did his work over meals, but with the icy season coming in, there weren't any new models to pitch and so Jack was sprawled on the couch, greasy chicken leg in hand, cold beer on the coffee table, eyes glued to the TV set. The rodeo, of course. A man's sport, a man's man. Bobby smiled.

Jack looked up as he shut the door. "Bobby, what are you doing home so…" He trailed off, threw the chicken leg back onto his plate. "Wait, you okay, son?"

"I'm fine, Dad," he said, but Jack was already dragging him to the kitchen. He grabbed a paper towel, ran it under a little water and held it up to his son's nose. "You get in a fight?"

"Jimmy Bell is a fucking idiot."

"Language, boy." Then he smiled, lowered the paper towel and threw it into the wastebasket. "I never liked him. At least tell me you won."

"A fair bet. Left him in the dust."

"What happened?"

It was too ridiculous to ask, talk about. But he shrugged and asked, "Dad, you ever step out on mom?"

"Cheat on Lureen? What's that got to do with Jimmy?" he asked, then shook his head, understanding. "That boy accuse me of something?" Bobby nodded and Jack grinned again, clapped him on the shoulder. "You don't have to defend your old dad. But I'm glad you did. But don't let me catch you fighting again, you hear? I don't want anything happening to you."

There was pride in his face despite the warning, a man's pride for his son, almost a man himself. Bobby chuckled. "It won't happen again. It was ridiculous anyway. He's a real idiot, Jimmy Bell, calling you a queer."

He wished he had been looking down, anywhere but at his father, because there was no mistaking that look. Guilt. His eyes, already so big, widened almost imperceptibly; the hand on Bobby's shoulder let up a little, then crushed down harder than ever.

And Bobby knew.

"It's not true," he whispered.

"Bobby—"

"You have a wife, a kid… It's not true. Queers don't have kids or wives or go hunting in the mountains three times a year…"

He stopped, because there it was again, the eyes. His stomach fell, felt like it was turning inside out, and it was a good thing he hadn't eaten because he would be throwing it up about now…

"All this time? You disappear for days and that's why? And Mexico? That true too?"

"Bobby—" Jack said, and reached out.

Bobby jerked away. "Don't touch me."

"I'm your father, don't talk to me like that!"

"You're disgusting!" Bobby screamed, and it was the last thing he ever said to his father.

Two weeks later, two weeks of sulking and glowering and not speaking at dinner— when he came home for dinner— his father was dead.

He knew the official story, of course, but he wasn't deaf to the rumors like he had been. He heard exactly what they were saying about Jack Twist in the halls of his high school, the streets of the town.

After all, it's not everyday they get to kill a fag in Childress County.

It was the first week of October when he died. Thanksgiving was horrible without him; they watched football, Granddad was oddly silent, and Bobby almost threw up, remembering old fights over the television when he was younger.

Christmas wasn't much better, not with his mother grumbling under her breath about falling sales and his grandfather's gleeful return as the patriarch of the Twist apartment. It seemed that two months of silence about Bobby's good-for-nothing father was enough respect for the dead.

Bobby himself wasn't sure how he felt. It was disgusting, wasn't it, what Jack was? And all those years pretending? He wasn't a good man. He would never have done _that_ if he was a good man. But his father had swept him up into his arms when he was a child, taken him to the rodeo (which Bobby had never liked, though he would never have admitted it to Jack), kissed his mother under the mistletoe every Christmas, a passionate kiss, fueled by Christmas spirit— and spirits. That wasn't the man who had driven to Mexico to… It made Bobby sick just thinking about it. What did he even know about his father?

It was the day after Christmas that Bobby received his first Christmas card from his grandparents— the Twists, lonesome souls from Wyoming. The card was faded, like someone had bought it years before and kept it packed away. It had a picture of the baby Jesus, swaddled and in his manger, the North Star above him. Inside was a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a short paragraph in shaky script. It said something about being sorry about his father and sorry for never having sent a card before, and finished with a wan expression of hope for a visit someday.

He wondered if they knew about their son. Knew what he did. Surely no one who would send a card with the baby Jesus would have harbored the knowledge of such… transgressions. Sin, plain and simple. He shoved the card back in its envelope and it took up residence in the back of his sock drawer.

It was May before he came upon it again. He cocked his head to the side, staring at the little Jesus and the shaky script. He looked away, caught his reflection in the mirror above his bureau. There were tears in his eyes and he didn't even know why. He looked away, back down at the envelope and the address scrawled on it. And Bobby Twist made his decision.

He was going to Lightning Flats.


	2. Chapter 2

Long time, no update. I kinda suck like that. Thank you all so much for your reviews! I think I've found my direction in this story, so the next one should be up soon.

Chapter Two

He'd been driving for nearly twelve hours. His eyes stayed shut longer and longer each time he blinked, and though it was barely dusk, Bobby didn't think he would make it much longer. According to the map, it was still some fifty miles to Lightning Flat, and he needed to rest. He was almost ready to pull over for a quick nap on the side of the highway when he saw the sign.

Riverton, Wyoming.

Bobby froze, hands clinching on the wheel. Riverton was where Jack had gone on his trips, to hunt or fish or do whatever it was he had done in the mountains three times a year. Half of him wanted to keep driving North; the other half wanted to stop dead and do… something. He didn't know what- he couldn't even remember the name of his father's _friend_. And if he could, he didn't know what he'd be more likely to do: shake his hand or beat his head in with a tire iron.

In the end, he couldn't do either, because he didn't remember the damn name. His growling stomach and drooping eyelids won out, though; he pulled into Riverton and stopped at the first lit-up place he could see, a little diner on the corner. He just sat for a moment, staring at the dusty street. Then he slipped out of the car, shut the door behind him with a snap.

Before he'd taken more than a step, a voice behind him said, "Nice car."

He started to turn around, but it wasn't necessary; before he could, the girl had appeared right beside him. She was pretty, her long brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, and wearing a long flannel shirt that was a long way from being Texas fancy, or probably even Wyoming fancy.

He smiled at her and gestured back to the car. "She's my baby."

"Boys and their cars," she replied and winked. "You're probably as bad as my daddy with horses."

"Well, I don't know your daddy."

She twisted the end of her braid around her finger. "You're not from 'round here."

"Well, what gave me away?"

"Texas accent… and the plates. What's a Texan like you doing up here?"

The smile faded from his face. "Visiting family."

"You don't look to happy about it."

He forced the grin back on. "We all gotta do it sometime, right?"

"Right. So you got a name?"

"Bobby."

Her cherry-red lips curled up prettily as she took the hand he offered her. "Jenny."

Bobby, his father had always said, had a way with the ladies. "Can I buy you some dinner, Jenny?"

"D'I look like that kinda girl?"

He knew well enough that she wasn't offended. "What kinda girl you talking about? The hungry kind?"

She smiled, looked sorely tempted, but in the end, stepped backward. A look of disappointment slipped across her face and she said, "Sorry, Bobby, I got myself some other plans."

"And here when I was just getting to like you." Bobby shook his head, then tipped his hat. "Great pleasure meetin' you, Jenny."

The diner food tasted like straw and leather, and not even worth the meager few dollars he paid for it. The waitress smiled kindly at him. He left her a tip that was worth more than her one refill of coffee and smile was worth. Bobby had been taught to be generous. Not everyone had what the Newsome's had.

The Twists, with their broken-down whitewashed fences and torn up driveway, certainly didn't.

Next to Lightning Flat, Riverton was a metropolis. He'd stepped out of his car at the Twist's farm, took off his hat, and felt something flutter through his stomach. His dad had grown up here. The smell of rotting hay invaded his nostrils. No one took care of the place. Bobby pushed his hair out of his face and took a careful step away from the shelter of his car. His boots sank into the mud and made a squelching sound as they came back up.

The ground was drier closer to the front door. By the time he got to the steps leading up to the porch, he was on solid ground again. He still felt sick and decided it was the hay.

He knocked twice. No one answered. The sickness faded a little and he put his hat back on. He turned around and then a creak sounded behind him.

"Yes?"

Bobby licked his lips and turned back to the door. "Ma'am," he said and tipped his hat. "Are you Mrs. Twist?"

The woman was faded like the card she had sent him, and just as creased around the edges. She had kind eyes, though, haunted with some dark spirit. She swallowed. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Twist," she said, and her tone made him think she already knew who he was.

He took his hat off, forced a smile. "I'm Bobby Twist, ma'am. Jack's son."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I can't seem to write long chapters. _

Chapter Three

The old lady was real kind. She ushered him inside immediately, wrinkly hands grabbing for his jacket. He gave it to her. It looked too heavy in her tiny hands; he almost reached out to make sure she didn't drop it.

She walked toward the kitchen table, and draped his jacket over a chair, then offered it to him. "Now, I knew it was you the second I opened that door… You've got your daddy's eyes and that's no small compliment, child. Bobby."

Her voice was small and country; it had none of the flair of his Newsome grandmother's. Bobby smiled tightly, wrapped his left hand around the arm of the chair, polished from use, and said, "Thank you, ma'am."

"Can I get you something?" she asked, biting down on her lip.

The old lady was going to cry, and Bobby couldn't do anything about it. Coming up North was a bad plan. He would have rose and walked out, if Mrs. Twist hadn't been staring at him with those bleeding eyes, as though he was his father come back to life.

He was not his father.

"Ma'am, you know, I don't really know why I came and maybe I should be going…"

The skinny hands went to the stout neck as Mrs. Twist gasped. "No. Please, Bobby. I… I just don't know what to say or do. Not many 'round here knew Jack or understood him. Can't we just talk for a bit, son?" Bobby nodded. His grandmother smiled. "I'll make some coffee, alright? You like apple pie? I made some just this mornin'."

He sat there in silence while she cut him a big ol' slice of pie and poured him a cup of coffee. The apples were tart and the coffee bitter, real food, not like the leather monstrosity of the diner. He quirked a grin at his grandmother after his third bite, and she smiled angelically, just let him eat.

"You know, your daddy… He was a real happy child, most times that is." Her voice caught on his ears, tore at them, and he made himself remember that he wanted this, wanted to know about Jack Twist and his mood swings, his rodeo days, his tree house around back if he had one. The things he didn't want to know were back in Riverton. Lightning Flat was safe.

"Was he now?" Bobby asked, and forced his voice to be congenial.

"Why, yes. Always had a kind word. His father wasn't easy on him, but he was a real bit of sunshine for me. He liked music; he sang those old church songs while he did the dishes, you know. Never had an ear for it." She laughed and he could tell she didn't have the ear either. Well, neither did he. The Twists were just not a musical clan, apparently.

She was watching him like she expected something and he realized she wanted him to talk. Tell a story in exchange for her own memory. He looked down at his plate, watched his hand moving of its own accord, crushing his pie with his fork. "He used to ride with me on the tractors. My granddaddy Newsome owns this business and Pop worked for him there. He sold these huge ol' tractors for the real big farms, and my dad pulled me up on his lap and rode around in circles. My mother hated it."

They went on like that for a while, exchanging story for story, a little bit of his father's childhood seeping into Billy like rain into the cracked desert ground. When the pie was gone and the coffee cold, Mrs. Twist said, "Now, I ain't barely touched his room. You can go on up and take a look at it. Only one other person other than me been in that room since Jack died."

Bobby blinked, wondered who it was, and then decided he didn't want to know.

His father's room was so much smaller than his own, so much less colorful. There was a BB gun on the wall, threadbare blankets on the bed, and a couple toys on the desk. An ancient picture of a movie star was tacked on the wall. Bobby felt a rush of anger at her dark hair and soft curves. A woman on his father's wall. Why then had he gone down to Mexico or up to hunt in Riverton? Why had he been killed? Why couldn't he have just stayed with the picture of that girl, who must have been pretty before age had rendered the ink of her skin magenta?

Bobby ripped the picture down, almost tore it in half. Then he stopped, took a breath, and put it back down on the desk. No use in tearing up the past. No use in keeping it either. He left it there, took one more look around the room, and walked away.

By the time he made it down the stairs, his grandfather had come home. Bobby didn't ask where he had been and didn't make a move to introduce himself. The old man watched him with a quirked brow.

"This one coming by is better than the other one," he said and the old woman shushed him.

"This here's our grandson, Bobby."

"I know that." The old man looked him over and something glinted in his eyes. "He's got Jack's eyes. Damn pretty eyes," he said and it wasn't a compliment. "You ain't like Jack, are you, coz I never said nothing to him about it, but—"

"Sir, I ain't nothing like my father."

The old man's lips quirked up just like his brow and he shook his head. "Twenty years ago, Jack stood right there and said the same."

Bobby sighed, blinked, then smiled at Mrs. Twist. "Ma'am, sir, I better be going. I just came by for a visit."

"You drove from Texas for an hour?" the old woman said, voice strangled.

"I'm really no good at this," he said. After a couple seconds of indecision, he crossed the room and swept the woman into a hug, pressed her to him firmly. She smelled, he thought, like a grandmother should— not like vinyl car seats or perfume like his Newsome grandma, but like apples and soap. "You're a fine cook. Thank you."

He nodded to the old man and slipped out the door. His grandmother was right behind him, calling out protests then goodbyes when she realized he was actually leaving. He could imagine a similar scene twenty years before, imagine Jack leaving the same way, climbing into a car that was much less shiny than his own, and propelling himself into a future that was unknown, cast into shadow by clouds of dust.


End file.
